


Petty Grievances Hidden Under Candlelit Evenings

by WitchyWriter



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Angst, Basil is a Bitch, Canon Era, Canon Related, Cheating, Deception, Dialogue Heavy, Dorian Isn't Dumb, Everyone Is Gay, Fluff, Harry is a Little Shit, Implied/Referenced Sex, Love Triangles, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, POV Third Person Omniscient, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:19:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchyWriter/pseuds/WitchyWriter
Summary: Basil was what saved Harry from himself, the light of his life and all it revolved it around. Then Basil met Dorian Gray and that happiness seemed to be lost to him forever. His retaliation destroys the peace of his old life and ushers in another which he never thought to be possible. Perhaps he didn't know what happiness was to begin with, perhaps he had yet to find it at all.
Relationships: Basil Hallward/Henry Wotton, Dorian Gray & Basil Hallward, Dorian Gray/Basil Hallward, Dorian Gray/Henry Wotton
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	1. The Painter and His Muse

Harry had never seen himself as the settling down type. Though he had been married, divorced, the heartbroken and the heartbreaker; finding “the one” was never particularly of any interest to him. If he was truly honest with himself, which was rare, he had never believed himself to be capable of love at all. He harped on this, hiding himself away behind an overbearing facade of witty retorts and overcomplicated conversations to drive the average person away. This worked for some time, even successfully driving away his wife- who he thought was the closest thing to “the one” he could get. 

He fell into a deep depression over this, sucking down enough opium to inebriate a village and drinking until he could hear colors. That was when, in his seemingly infinite melancholy, Harry met Basil. 

He and the painter had met at one of his sister’s hundreds of parties; Harry looming in the corner and sending people away with his favorite icebreaker, “How do you plan to cope with the inevitability of death when you don’t know when it will come?” Whilst downing as many glasses of champagne he could get his hands on

This intrigued Basil- the question, not the drinking. His attendance to the party was demanded via the Lady’s recent obsession with a landscape painting she’d seen passing by his studio. He and the Lady had never really met, and Basil hated parties, but with a recent spell of artist’s block overcoming him, he really had nothing better to do. Though afraid to approach the now almost maniacally laughing Harry, he watched from behind a column and studied him like a sculpture. 

There was something in his eyes which moved Basil nearly to tears, the wine clasped in his now shaking hand suddenly revolted him. He had to get closer, he had to see what it was that made this man so suddenly magnetic.

Harry asked his question again, now to the open air which surrounded him; his head tilting to the side as Basil approached him. He straightened himself, cheeks flushed with slight embarrassment. “I don’t believe we-” He cleared his throat, becoming aware of just how drunk he was, “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Harry held out a hand, trying his best to maintain some level of appropriate eye contact. 

“No, we haven’t.” Basil accepted it, shaking lightly and smiling. “I’m Basil Hallward, your sister invited me.” Their hands were clasped together for much longer than necessary.

Harry strained to hear him, the live orchestra had caused a dull throbbing in his temples. “She does like to pack a room.” He replied more to himself than Basil, taking his hand back to cough and sighing, “So, Mr. Hallward-“

“Please, call me Basil.” He interjected with more excitement than he meant to, cringing at his own eagerness. “And you?” 

Harry took another flute of champagne from a passing server, cocking an eyebrow and really looking at Basil for the first time. He flushed again, self-conscious at being this drunk in front of someone he could sense wasn’t a total fool; the alcohol swooping in to dull such feelings almost immediately. “Henry Wotton, but just call me Harry.” His inhibitions were drowned by the bubbly as he continued, “Right, so Basil, let me ask you; how do you plan to cope with the inevitability of death when you don’t know when it will come?”

“I don’t.” This surprised Harry, causing him to choke slightly mid sip; the sight making the painter chuckle. “What? Did I say something wrong?” 

His eyes went slightly wide, studying Basil further and finding a sense of comfort within the hues of his eyes, “No, no, you didn’t say anything wrong.” He wiped the corner of his mouth on his sleeve, “That’s just an exceptional answer, why do you say that?” Harry led them to a small sitting area just outside the main ballroom and away from the loud party. He leaned forward in his seat, hands to his chin and waited in poorly hid anticipation for Basil’s answer. 

“Well,” He began, trying his best to ignore the almost childlike amazement in Harry’s gaze. “Being as it could, as you said, come at any moment, I don’t really see a point in coping with something I don’t have much of a choice in. Especially when within my moments of coping, death could be lingering just behind me.” Basil took a short sip from his wine, “Besides, why should I waste my life trying to cope with its end when I could spend an equal amount of time just living?” 

Harry could feel the rising need to weep building in his chest, drowned by another half a flute of champagne. “You’re brilliant.” 

“I’m sensible.” Basil corrected.

When the party ended and they said their goodbyes, exchanging addresses, Harry was left with a warmth he had never experienced before. Basil was left with an unshakeable need to paint the man’s face in as much detail as he could remember. Which gave him an almost horrifying replica of Harry’s face; right down to the despair in his eyes. He spent the rest of the night fawning over it, only to tear it to pieces the following morning. 

Neither slept that night, nor the night after and on and on for weeks until the letter Basil had been waiting for finally arrived inviting him out for dinner that evening. 

It was uncomfortable a first, seeing one another sober respectively for the first time was a bit awkward. Harry could see what Basil really looked like, which didn’t draw him away from the painter any less. He could tell from the way he fiddled with his hair in the silence that he was self conscious about his appearance, which he couldn’t begin to understand why. 

Basil could hear what Harry’s voice sounded like ungarbled, which stirred something in him that he didn’t know was there. Something he couldn’t discern between passion or odd anxiety. 

Pushing around some steak he didn’t remember ordering and didn’t particularly want, Harry cleared his throat in an attempt to break the tension and smiled, “So, I don’t believe you ever told me what you did, Basil.”  
“You never asked.” He said plainly, carefully ladling a spoonful of soup into his mouth. 

Harry faltered, “I um, I guess I never did.” He lamely chewed on a piece of steak, swallowing and clapping his hands silently to once again break the tension, “Well- now I am, what do you do for a living?” 

“I’m a painter. I do commissions as well as whatever strikes my fancy, though I tend to hate to part with anything I make.” Basil watched his expression carefully, this was typically the line of conversation in which he lost a lot of people. Doing something so non-lucrative in their day and age was often seen as trivial and worthless- though the same people who thought so were always the same begging for a free portrait. 

“Really?” He propped up his chin with his fists, genuinely amazed, “I’ve met a handful of your type before, but I can tell that you’re different. Deeper.” 

“Is that so?” Basil didn’t like the cross-examination but something in the way Harry looked at him made him soften, let his guard down. 

Harry nodded slowly, “I’d love to hear you speak about it it some more, but I can’t stand this place anymore, the smell of cheap cigarettes is killing me.” He made a face, making Basil smile, as he waved down their waiter for the check. 

The painter bit his lip, weighing the very few pros and cons of the thought he’d been mulling over all evening and spoke up abruptly, “I can take you back to my studio for some tea, perhaps show you some of my work.” He rose, blushing, to put on his jacket and take a final sip of liquid courage. 

“I would enjoy that, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No not at all, it’d be my pleasure.” 

They left, Basil leading the way and talking absently about his career and Harry hanging onto every word that came from his lips. Basil wasn’t used to being allowed to speak about his passion without being made fun of, so he savored the opportunity as he savored the look in Harry’s eyes and the feeling of his closeness.

The studio came into view, Basil putting the key into the antique lock and speaking now like a parent rather than a young artist, “Now, I must warn you Harry, it’s quite the mess in there.” He shot him a look of soft warning, “And don’t go touching everything, most of my things are delicate.” 

His companion was listening, though loosely. “Undoubtedly a reflection of the creative mind, no?” 

“I…suppose so.” Basil was flustered and felt oddly seen. 

Harry turned to him and flashed a smile, pushing the door open and assured Basil of his understanding by clasping his hands behind his back. This didn’t last for very long however, as the world which Harry walked into was not one he had ever seen before. The overwhelming of his senses was so great that he brought his hands over his mouth, stopping in his tracks before he ever really stepped in.

“Are they really so terrible?” Basil walked around him, unaware of the sensation taking Harry over, clearing spare canvases and a tarp off of a chaise lounge. He fiddled over a small paint stain to distract himself from the mounting anxiety gathering in his chest. “I haven’t shown any of these to a soul,” Collecting himself, Basil turned around and was met with Harry already standing before him, “Except for you of course.” He mustered out in a whisper.

Harry reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him gently with each syllable, “You’re brilliant.” Basil guffawed, trying his best to slide away from the compliment, but Harry would not allow it, gripping onto his shoulders slightly tighter. “I’m serious, take this how you want, but I’ve never seen someone so unknowing of their own talents before.” He thought for a moment before continuing. “Artists can make the equivalent of children’s drawings and think they’re DaVinci, or paint what looks to be a photo and drown themselves in the Atlantic.” 

“So what am I?” 

“Someone so unaware of the visual harmonies they create that they can live in ignorant bliss of the symphonies they refuse to give to the world, rather than be consumed by the noise.”

He felt his heartbeat in his throat, overcome by something which he couldn’t place. “How many artists have you swept off their feet with that one.” Basil shook free from his grip and tried to turn away, Harry catching him by the hand. 

Looking intently into his eyes, which he now wanted to see behind into whatever Basil could possibly be thinking about, Harry dropped his voice to a whisper, “Like I said, I’ve never met one like you before.”

Harry never left after that night, and if he did, it was only to go outside and pick up whatever it was he asked his butler to bring by. The social scene saw less and less of him as summer turned into fall, stumbling then into winter and finally into effervescent spring. He was missed at parties, at plays, during dinner’s in which when his name came up- a hush came over the table. The painter had captivated him more than anything had in his entire life, breathing life into sedentary lungs.

The artist’s block which loomed in Basil’s brain had been broken into a million splintering pieces. Harry had provided for a him a muse both in physicality and unabridged emotion which creatives can only dream of. If he knew how, he’d put pen to paper and illustrate in the form of words how alive he felt. Alas, with what medium he knew, all he could possibly say was done with strokes of a brush and between the sheets of their bed. Both which seemed to get the point across effectively to the only one he now needed approval from. 

They spent two years this way, wrapped in one another so intensely that the outside world seemed to fade away like just another one of Basil’s painting; though the hues of the sunrise and sunset somehow had less depth.

The moon was positioned just above their bedroom window, a cool breeze billowing the curtains out like a woman’s dress during a waltz. The pair couldn’t sleep, existing in a comfortable, nude silence with only the crickets breaking their train of thought. Basil lay pressed firmly against Harry’s chest humming a song in tune with his heartbeat; his lover playing with his hair absently and thinking of nothing in particular.

“I think I’m going to try and paint us like this, as we are now.” Basil said, looking up into Harry’s eyes, trying to figure out what color to use to show the reflection of the moonlight in his pupils. 

Harry scoffed, kissing his forehead and leaning back in an attempt to get some sleep, “And why now? What’s different about tonight than yesterday or even last week?” He cracked open one eye, “I mean that in the nicest way darling.” 

“I know, I know,” Basil pulled away, making Harry whine, and sat up on his knees. “I just,” He cocked his head to the side, studying him- which he hated. “There’s something about this moment, I don’t think I’ll ever have one like this again.”

“No two moments are the same my dear, every second brings something different whether it’s a new direction for the wind to blow or a shocking punch to the gut.” He extended his arm for Basil to back to his side, which he accepted wordlessly. “Let’s not focus on the triviality of life from moment to moment- I’m too tired for that right now.” 

“So you’re telling me that I shouldn’t attempt to paint it?” Basil asked, almost sullen.

“You’re the brilliant one my love, do what brings you stimulation, always.”

“I love you my dear.”

“I love you too. Now hush, go to sleep.”


	2. Convolution Becomes You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basil meets Dorian on a walk to the park. From this moment on, Basil can tell that nothing will be the same.

Much of their relationship had to, for obvious reasons, be kept a secret. Which both understood and yet, the reality never got any easier. Basil and Harry never left the house together; only meeting each other in public spaces by “happenstance” or at a fashionably late time on part of whichever didn’t arrive on time at their last meeting. It was convoluted and often frustrating, but they didn’t complain; they simply loved each other too much to give it more thought beyond the moment. 

It was a bright and chilly winter morning when Basil decided to take his easel and his paints to the park a short walk away from his studio. He had invited Harry to come along, but unless he was the subject in some fashion, watching Basil for hours on end could get quite boring. The painter had a tendency to get absorbed in his work, quite literally disappearing into the stitching of the canvas with an unshakable intensity. Harry declined, taking the free hours to visit his sister; who recently sent a letter to his manor in fear that he had died. 

Basil kissed him goodbye quickly, antsy to catch the fresh sheet of snow that had fallen last night before the sun spoiled it. “I should be home by supper darling!”

“That early?” Harry leaned in again to steal another kiss, cracking a smile when Basil rolled his eyes. 

He pushed him away, “Yes that early, the snow should surely be melted by then.” 

“Oh, hm.” Harry turned away, feigning disappointment with a concealed smile. “I thought you’d come back early because you would like so see me sooner, or something silly like that, interesting.” 

“Oh stop your petty nonsense, how about we go to that restaurant you like in the city tonight? Hm? Will that make you stop that,” Basil gestured around Harry’s general form with his hand, “Thing you’re doing?” 

The man, now walking away and sitting down rather gracefully on the chaise lounge, nodded slowly and flashed his lover a smile; shooing him away with a flick of his wrist and closing his eyes. Basil took this as a yes and finally took his leave, telling his butler to remind Harry of his date with his sister on the way out.

The wind was sharp and cold, swirling his scarf over his face and causing his nose to immediately run. He laughed, holding onto his supplies tighter and starting his trek in the untouched snow; humming the rhythm of Harry’s heartbeat which to him sounded like Mozart. There wasn’t a soul walking the streets with him, which was rare for the area they lived in, especially so close to Christmas. The only sound was the clicking of Basil’s boots on the road and the subtle life that hadn’t dipped into hibernation just yet. He enjoyed this peace, though the one he shared with Harry was special and unique- there was nothing quite like time spent picking his own brain. 

Lost in thought, walking slowly but with purpose towards his destination, Basil had nearly failed to notice the other pair of shoes clicking some distance behind him. The step was lighter, less uniform than his own and the off-beat clicking annoyed him enough to turn around. 

The young man behind him stopped, caught off guard by the sudden attention and waved awkwardly. “Hello,” His voice was deep and somehow airy at the same time. “Can you give me some help? I’m a bit lost.” He smiled, his teeth strikingly white and perfect. 

Basil was beside himself, his brow creased in annoyance immediately lifting into unabridged astonishment. The boy was beautiful; blue eyes gazing innocently though deeply into his soul, blonde hair falling out of its slicked-back style into his eyes and skin soft like the unspoiled snow. Basil had seen many young men in his life, but not a single one, had ever looked like him. 

The boy, pitifully unaware of the affect he had on people, took a step forward and spoke again. “Can you help me? I apologize if I’m bothering you, you do look like you’re in quite the hurry.”

“I-um, yes,” Basil stepped towards him, wiping the sweat that had managed to form on his brow away with the back of his glove. “Where is it you’re looking to go?” 

“Are you a painter?” He was eyeing up the canvas clutched under Basil’s arm with his head lobbed to the side. 

Basil gulped, “Yes, yes I am.” 

“How fascinating, I’ve never met an artist before.” They stood like that for a moment, the boy eyeing up the blank canvas and paints, while Basil tried to figure out what shade of gold he would use to illustrate the color of his locks. “Oh forgive me,” He spoke suddenly, startling the painter, “My manners have slipped my mind,” He held out a gloved hand, “My name is Dorian, Dorian Gray.” Dorian slipped his hand back into his pocket when he realized that Basil didn’t have a free hand to shake. 

“It’s nice to meet you Mr.Gray-“

“Please, call me Dorian.”

Basil flushed, “…Dorian, right. I hate to cut the conversation short, but I really have to be getting on, where is it you’re going again?” The sun had reached its peak, the snow starting to melt into small streams down the sides of the road. 

Dorian’s eyes lit up, a thought crossing his mind causing him to speak with palpable excitement, “I don’t have to be there until sundown, forget it.” He clasped his hands together, looking as though he was begging. “If it’s not too much trouble, can I come with you and watch you paint? I’ll be quiet, I swear.” 

Basil thought for a moment, looking into Dorian’s eyes and finding himself unable to deny him, even though he preferred to paint alone. Unless Harry was with him, of course. The spell that had been cast upon him worked silently, so quiet that even Basil didn’t notice what was coming over him until his lips and tongue said the word, “Sure.”

“Oh wonderful! Lead the way- what’s your name again?”

“Basil Hallward.” 

Dorian clapped his hands, grinning like a child on Christmas morning, “Lead the way Basil!” The boy followed close behind and babbled on and on about things that were really quite trivial; what he’s doing in London, the manor which was left in his name, how excited he was for both. He wore youth on his face like a flashy watch and naively shook it in front of others who craved such leisure. Basil was only a few years older than him and yet, in the gaps of speech, he wanted life to breathe in and out of him as it did Dorian. 

The park came into view, the snow still perfectly preserved and the the ice glazed over the pond blinding them both. Noon had passed, the sun streaking the sky in a stark white and the clouds an odd shade of gray. Basil sighed in relief, knowing that his evening could still go on semi-uninterrupted, setting up his easel and donning his painting apron. Sat at a nearby bench, Dorian crossed his legs at the knee, shivering, but deeply interested in whatever was to transpire. 

Hours went by, the landscape changing from a snowy afternoon on the canvas to a deep blue sunset before their eyes; Basil remaining transfixed on the piece the entire time. He didn’t look up once to see if he had maintained the boy’s attention or if there was anything he needed; Basil spent forty five minutes painting grass. When he was satisfied and it was too dark to continue, he finally looked up and wiped the black paint from his chin with his apron, looking around and surprised to find that Dorian was still there. 

“I’m sure there was a better way you could’ve spent your afternoon.” Basil said, making himself chuckle. “I’m afraid that I’m not very interesting.” 

Dorian rose from his place on the bench, stretched like a cat and immediately protested, “Are you joking? That was fascinating!” 

“Really?” He checked his watch and cursed himself for how late it got, Harry would be unbelievably upset with him when he got home. Basil cringed slightly and started to clean up his supplies with more haste. “I’m glad you had a good time.”  
“It was lovely, thank you for having me.” Dorian moved closer, straining to see the painting against the street lamps. What he did see made his jaw go slack, the vibrant colors speaking to him in a way that made him slightly uncomfortable; as if he was seeing something not meant for his eyes, but his spirit. “I-“ 

“What?” Basil was alarmed, not that Dorian didn’t like it, but that he liked it too much. He painted this for Harry, hoping to frame it as an apology for his lateness. “Something the matter?” 

The boy swallowed, hard. “No, not at all. You’re just, quite talented.” 

There was a sensation of tension lost to Dorian, though Basil felt it in its entirety; thick and confining, but not unpleasant. The painter watched him watch the picture, once again awestricken as he had been when their eyes first locked, with a paintbrush clutched in his white-knuckled fist. He was divine from the ground up and Basil knew that he would be a fool to let such a form completely pass him by. 

“Dorian, would you like to come by my studio some time and sit for me?” He didn’t know where the courage came from, but by the light shining in his eyes at the last syllable, Basil knew he couldn’t take it back now. 

“Are you sure?” He cleared his throat, adjusting his jacket and standing up straight, attempting to come across as less of a child and more of a distinguished man; slightly embarrassed at his fawning over Basil. “I mean, I would love to.”

He smiled, swayed slightly by Dorian’s eagerness before catching himself, remembering who was waiting at home for him and feeling a sensation of guilt. Though, he couldn’t place why. “Excellent, should we say- a week from tonight?” His heart was beating nearly out of his chest in a raw excitement he hadn’t felt since his first night with Harry. The guilt persisted. 

The boy thought for a half a second before nodding quickly in agreement, extending his hand for another handshake, which this time was accepted. “Perfect. It’s a-.” His cheeks flushed, stopping abruptly. 

“It’s a what?” 

“Nothing, it’s the uh- wind. Bit chilly isn’t it?” Dorian rubbed his hands together and chuckled awkwardly. “Where’s your studio?” 

They exchanged addresses and parted ways, the tension still lingering with their backs to one another and handfuls of feet between them. It started to snow on Basil’s walk home, cooling the redness of his cheeks triggered by both the cold and unsettled nerves. Harry was waiting for him when he opened the door; arms crossed, scowling and dressed up more than usual. 

“Sunset?” Was all Harry said, his tone almost emotionless, other than a questioning inflection. 

Basil stopped in the doorway, not making eye contact as he took off his jacket and brushed the unmelted snow from his hair. “I know I know, I’m sorry- I can explain, truly.” He tried his hardest to sound casual not to rouse an argument.

“Quickly.” Harry turned his back and draped himself on the chaise dramatically. 

The memory of Dorian stirred something in Basil, making him grin and swell with happiness. “You’ll never believe it, I found the most wonderful subject for a portrait.” He crossed the room and sat down next to Harry, who looked away as though he didn’t miss him something terrible. “Oh don’t act like that my love,” He turned Harry’s head with a gentle touch to his chin, “I hope you’ll be happy for me.” He said nothing in return, waiting now in a clenching suspense for whatever it was that clearly had captivated his lover. Basil looked away from Harry musing, “I was intending to go to the park like I told you I was, but along the way I met the most magnificent young man-“

“You what?” Harry’s eyes went wide, his composure slightly loosening. 

Basil ignored this reaction and continued, “He had the most innocent blue eyes, almost like the world’s horrors had somehow passed him over; like he’d never seen a single bad thing in all his life.” He felt his eyes grow misty, shaking his head and laughing at himself for being so emotional over a stranger, “Either way, he seemed to me to be just waiting for someone to paint his portrait. I wanted to beat every other miserable artist in London to the punch. Every painting of him after will merely be a copy.”

“Does this invigorating young man have a name, or do you intend to deprive me of that as well?” Harry was enchanted by the look that had come over Basil’s face as he spoke. It reminded him of the look he gave him on the eve of their first meeting; the subtle tilt in his head, the gaze that seemed to study Harry inside and out. Though in this moment he could not let his bitterness from being pushed aside tonight influence the brewing sensation of jealousy he had in his core now. 

His lover chuckled, finally meeting his gaze again, “Dorian, his name is Dorian.”

Harry didn’t react, caught off guard by how angry he was by this, but attempted with mixed success to pass it off on Basil’s exceptional artist’s eye. “Well, despite how stupid I think that name is, I’m glad you’ve found something else to paint besides landscapes.” Harry kissed his temple and rose, stretching like a cat on his tippy-toes. 

Basil scoffed haughtily, smirking, “And what’s wrong with my landscapes?” He rose as well, slinking a paint-stained hand around Harry’s waist, leading him to bed. Though he was in no mood to make up for his lateness, the hood over Harry’s eyes quickly changed that.  
It was laying on his back, covered in sweat during the early hours of another December morning where he could only think of Dorian; not the man he once considered to be the most beautiful in the world snoring lightly by his side. The painting remained in the living room, covered and soon forgotten about.


	3. Vermillion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian comes in for his first sitting, with Harry as the only spectator. Basil's adoration blooms, Harry taking notice and not believing it to be just a seasonal one.

Harry watched Basil silently as the week went by. A starry look had come into his eyes, staring off into the close distance where Harry wasn’t allowed to follow suit. There was also a sudden lack of desire for intimacy, or an overwhelming abundance of it that bordered on frantic. Harry didn’t complain about this, for one naturally caused the other and either way he benefited. He wasn’t concerned or anxious by these sights, nor really very moved by them at all, except for the gnawing sensation that these expressions of joy had nothing to do with him at all. 

That’s what bothered Harry the most. 

He has also started to paint people without a model, young men with golden halos of hair and blue eyes that mirrored the sky on a spring day. Where this likeness came to him from, Harry had no idea. But within three days flat there were a set of triplets of these young men. They bore holes into the portraits of himself that Basil had done over the years. They looked at Harry in a way in which raised the hair on his arms; not in fear, but in a sense of sensuality that felt like borderline infidelity. 

It was an oddly warm morning for December, their Christmas tree looking odd against the backdrop of a clear sky and green grass poking under a melted layer of snow. Harry was reading very little of a very large book in a dialect of English he could’t recognize. Basil stood at his easel and fussed over the organization of his paints for what now neared an hour. The young man he had been so struck by a week prior should be ringing to doorbell any second now, this fact throwing Basil into a composed frenzy. 

Harry looked up from a page he’d read about four times over, raising a brow at Basil groaning over how he’d tied the knot on his apron. “You’re not painting the Queen my dove,” He laid the book on the arm of his chair. “I’m sure this Dorian character could care less what you look like.” 

“But I do!” Basil’s eyes went wild, spinning on his heels to meet Harry’s gaze and relaxing after hearing his own voice echo back to him. He smoothed out his apron awkwardly, “I’m sorry. I just haven’t had a stranger sit for me in a while and I-“ Basil crossed the room and sat in Harry’s lap, resting his head on his shoulder. “What if it’s terrible?” This wasn’t what he was truly worried about, eye contact with one of the triplets proved that to be a lie quite quickly.

“Nonsense,” Harry scoffed, bringing Basil’s already paint stained knuckles to his lips. “You don’t make terrible things, that simply doesn’t happen.”

“But what about-“

“Doesn’t happen.” 

“…that painting I did of you-“

“I won’t hear it darling.”

“…completely in shades of green?”

Harry thought for a moment, his mouth slightly agape remembering that painting from last spring which abruptly ended Basil’s dip into monochromatics. “Every artist has to try something new to define their style honey. Just because it wasn’t, typical, doesn’t mean it was bad.”

“You’re an absolutely piss-poor liar Harry.” Basil kissed him gently on the cheek, smiling as they pressed their foreheads together. “But I love you anyway.” 

Before he could respond, the doorbell chimed, the butler’s footsteps echoing through their comfortable moment and shattering its intimacy. Dorian’s voice boomed throughout the house, making its way into the studio and slinking itself around Basil’s form. He rose, leaving Harry alone and content, to greet the young man at the door. 

“Basil!” The young man said, eyes bright and wandering around the canvas-laden room and amazed at all he found. He had never seen such color before, such delicacy yet such harshness put into so many lines in all his life. There was an overwhelming quality to it all, but in the best possible way. Dorian’s eyes wandered farther, until they landed directly on Harry’s. A harsh pink blush came across his face and he shuffled to stand straighter, meeting the taller gentlemen in the middle of the room with a firm handshake. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Basil’s told me quite a bit about you.”

Dorian laughed nervously, “All good things I hope.” 

Harry was dumbfounded by him, still shaking his hand up and down in an awkward dance which made everyone present a bit uncomfortable. He was beautiful, utterly and completely; the pit of jealousy at such a face remained but with it an understanding of his lover’s seeming infatuation. He didn’t know that they made men like this and it was in this moment where Dorian became the most important person in the room. 

“Harry, let go of the boy’s hand.” Basil spoke gently through gritted teeth.

He abruptly let go and wiped his palms on the thighs of his pants, laugh awkwardly to fill the silence that had sat for too long. “I’m going to go back to my book,” Harry flushed and turned away, glad but also disappointed to not be facing Dorian anymore. Basil gave him a strained look when he sat down, Harry mouthing a weak “I’m sorry” And turning his attention to the same page he was still trying to decipher. 

Dorian now looked to Basil, mildly confused, but his eyes still retained their same brightness lit with raw excitement. “So is he always here when you work?” He pointed to Harry, “Is he like a friend of yours, or one of those ‘donors’ I always hear people talking about?” 

“He’s a friend, aspiring artist.” Basil spoke too quickly, playing it off by coughing like a chain smoker into his apron. “Excuse me, sorry. Uh- yes, Harry wants to become an artist but doesn’t know the first thing about figure work.” He took Dorian gently by the elbow and led him to a stool in the center of the room. “So he wanted to sit in on our session and watch.” He caught the slight crease in Dorian’s brow, which worried him. “Is that alright with you?” 

He looked to Harry again, who now avoided his gaze like the plague and put on his reading glasses to complete the image of a man lost in the pages. “No, I don’t mind at all,” Dorian smiled, looking back to Basil, “Anything to support the arts.” 

“Wonderful!” Basil squoze his shoulder, half to get the boy to relax and half in an attempt to feel any signs of muscle. There was a good deal, which pleased him. “Now, tell me,” He walked back to his easel and began to match the paints to the hues of Dorian’s clothes and skin. “Where do you see yourself in this picture?” 

“What do you mean?” He looked genuinely confused, his head lobbed to the side. 

“Are you looking wistfully into a garden of roses? Are you sitting amongst them? Or are you separated from it all and somewhere else? Would you rather just be as you are now and we change nothing about the time or place?” Basil watched Dorian think about all these options and realized that he had given him too many. 

Dorian looked to Harry for an opinion, but he didn’t give him the slightest bit of attention. “Um, whichever you think is best.” He chuckled, wiping his palms down the thighs of his trousers, “You are the artist after all.” 

Basil sighed and came from behind the easel, looking to Harry to assure that his attention was elsewhere. Confirming this, he looked at Dorian with all of the adoration he had the first time they locked eyes. Of course, this wasn’t very difficult as the boy invoked such a reaction with his very presence. The scene came to Basil suddenly, picturing Dorian sitting in front of the shores of a beach during what looks to be a rainstorm. Though one doesn’t notice it because of the gaze in Dorian’s eye which captures what it is to be young. “I’ve got it.” He said in a whisper, patting Dorian on the cheek gently and walking now with purpose back to his work station. 

Silence was all that followed, save for a few general posing directions and instructing Harry to close the curtains to avoid lighting changes. Basil was now enraptured in the only form of life he could understand and nothing, not even Dorian being in his presence, could tear him away from that. 

Harry, finally giving up on understanding the book, (which he now reduced to just drivel) saw this as the perfect opportunity to see what it was about this boy beyond that obvious that had swept up his Basil. He knew that making his lover an artist would mean he was a victim to his eye, but there had to be, he thought, something else- something deeper. 

He kept the book in his hands, making sure to flip a page every few minutes or so, but stared intently between the two men in front of him. They said absolutely nothing, Dorian staring into Basil’s eyes with something Harry couldn’t quite decipher between lust or amazement. Basil staring back between brush strokes in hard concentration, though with the same glint in his expression that Harry was used to when they were in bed together. There was something in the curve of his lips that sent Harry into a composed rage. 

But he knew better than the interrupt Basil while he was working, so he instead turned his attention back to Dorian. He placed his book, now turned to the end though having read none of it, on the arm of the chair. Crossing his leg at the knee, Harry cleared his throat as a courtesy to Basil so the silence of the room shattering wouldn’t snap his attention. “So, Dorian, what do you do?” 

The boy was caught off guard and flinched, turning his eyes to meet Harry’s but not his head. “Pardon me?”

“What…what do you do?” 

“In what terms?” 

“For a job, a passion, a pleasure, I don’t know. What do you do?” 

Dorian thought for a second, trying his hardest to both think and maintain the pose that was asked of him. “I- I like to go to plays.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Plays? What kind of plays?”

“Shakespeare, I adore Hamlet.”

“How about you, Basil?” Harry could see how annoyed he was at being addressed when he was so deep in thought. “What’s your favorite play?” He said this in a mocking tone, not hiding such just to see if Dorian would catch it.

He didn’t. 

Basil sighed, cleaning a brush on his apron and giving up for the evening, “I guess if I had to choose, I would say Macbeth.” He paused both in thought and physically, “Or maybe Romeo and Juliet, I don’t know. All of Shakespeare’s work is quite wonderful so any of them could be a good answer.”

Harry knew that Basil hated plays, he found them repetitive and over-acted on most occasions. Also that the women wore too much makeup and the men wanted too desperately to be liked. Harry was taken aback by his answer but didn’t show it on his face. 

Before he could prod any more, Basil cleared his throat and stepped from behind his easel for the first time all afternoon. “I think we’re done for the day Dorian, you sat wonderfully.” He smiled and crossed the studio to stand in front of Dorian, putting his hands on his shoulders and squeezing. “If I didn’t know any better I would say you’ve done this before.”

“I can assure you that I haven’t.” Dorian smiled, attempting to get up, “Can I see what you’ve done so far? I’ve been waiting to see all day.” The light seemed to reflect off of his teeth to match the excitement in his eyes. “Please?” 

Basil clicked his tongue, his inhibitions coming back to him and unhanding the boy with a quickness. “No, no, no. I hate to show off unfinished pieces. You’ll have to come back another time or so so we can finish it up and then you can see it my dear.” 

“Another session?” Harry spoke up suddenly, taking his knuckle which he had been biting out of his mouth and rising to meet them in the middle of the room. “You’ve painted me in single sittings, why can’t you do the same for him? Hm?” 

Dorian looked between them, confused and mildly uncomfortable. He rose from his stool, moving from between the two men and to Basil’s side. “He’s painted you too?” 

Harry nodded, grinning, “Quite a few times actually, he’s very persistent that way.” He clamped a hand down on Basil’s shoulder and squeezed with some purpose, chuckling to himself. “I’m sure you know, the artist’s eye is ever wandering and all of that.” The emphasis on “ever wandering” put a level of tension in the room which made everyone in it uneasy.

“Well, I think I should be on my way.” Dorian said abruptly, extending a hand to Harry which was casually rejected as he turned around. Basil accepted the empty hand and shook it limply; instead choosing to take him by the shoulder and walk him to the door. “I don’t think your friend likes me very much.” Dorian laughed lightly under the threshold, the bitter cold of the night wafting into the house, which now seemed to be stifling. 

Basil laughed with him, glancing over his shoulder when Dorian looked away. “Nonsense, he doesn’t like anyone very much.” He made eye contact with Dorian again, melting into the boy’s gaze. “I don’t think he even likes me half of the time.” 

They said their goodbyes, arranging a date to meet again in two weeks time to allow the paint to properly dry. The second the door clicked shut, Harry rose from his chair and started, wasting absolutely no time to tear into the painter; who was still reeling from having Dorian so close to him for that long.

“And what exactly was that?” He shouted, meeting Basil in the foyer with his hands firmly planted on his hips and a deep scowl on his face. “Was I hallucinating? Going through a severe delusion? Or are you in love with that utterly vapid artist’s wet-dream?” 

Basil sighed, brushing past Harry and walking back into the studio. “No, darling, I’m in love with you. I thought you knew this.” 

Harry scoffed, “Well I thought that I did!” He followed him, his steps heavy and enraged. “I’ve seen you paint many things, seen you talk to many people, but you’ve never- ever talked or touched ANY of them like that!” A small section of his hair flopped into his face, though he was too upset to bother with appearances.

“Does Dorian seem to be the average subject to you?” Basil said flatly, refusing to meet his lover’s eyes, one part embarrassed and the other equally as confused by his actions as Harry. 

“No, I guess he isn’t.” He took a breathe and tried to relax himself, though the dull ache in his chest made that difficult for him. “I can understand why you’re so infatuated with him.” They stood in silence, Basil continuing to clean up to distract himself from what was transpiring and Harry desperately attempting to wrangle his thoughts. “I just don’t understand why. Yes, the boy is an exquisite creature and you have an insatiable desire to capture everything beautiful; that I can understand. But-” Harry looked to the stool Dorian had been sitting in moments ago, then to the easel and back to Basil. The scene of the last few hours played out in his mind’s eye as if it happened in slow motion, with him trapped in the center of a party he wasn’t invited to. “But I don’t understand why you look at him that way, why he looks at you that way even less.”

“And how do we look at each other Harry?” 

He sighed, biting his knuckle again in an attempt to suppress what it was he knew he felt and therefore, as was in his nature, had to say. “Like he’s the most wonderful thing you’ve ever seen. The most infatuating and interesting person you’ve ever been in a room with and one which has swept you up so high that nothing else matters when he’s near.”

Basil paused, furrowed his brow and sighed deeply; turning around to finally make eye contact with Harry, who now looked to be on the verge of tears. “Why does that sound so familiar?” He whispered, though he knew the answer. 

“Don’t tell me that you’re so far away from me that you don’t even recognize my writing. I knew your memory was terrible Basil, but you could try a little harder! I’m struggling to think that one evening with some young fop was all it took to snatch you from me.” A tear slid down Harry’s face, which was quickly wiped away with the cuff of his jacket.

“Stop saying that!” It was Basil’s turn to be frustrated. “I haven’t gone anywhere! I’m right here in front of you, don’t you see?” Basil rushed at him, pulling Harry’s hands from his hips and forcing them onto his chest. “That’s the same heartbeat you hear matching yours every night and the same one that speeds up when you’re near. One sitting with someone who yes, is very striking, is not enough to break us up, Harry.” He watched the doubt flash across his tear-welled eyes. “Or do you not believe in us anymore? Are you that bloody insecure that you think I would leave you for someone who enjoyed Hamlet?” Basil chuckled, assuming he wouldn’t be laughing alone. 

Harry pulled his hands away slowly, soaking in the last bit of Basil’s body heat before returning them to his sides. “I can’t stay here tonight.” 

“What?” 

“You heard me,” He looked around, eyes landing right back to the stool. “I can still feel him here, in the house, in you- I have to go back to mine to get it off of me.” 

Basil was beside himself now, but not emotional enough to protest nor beg. “This is your house Harry, your home. Or have you forgotten that so quickly?”

By the time Basil had finished speaking, Harry had already gathered his coat and was halfway across the studio, poorly holding back tears. “Just as you’ve forgotten that faithfulness begins with the thought, not the action? And before you start,” He whirled around, letting out a sharp exhale at the shade of vermillion which painted his lover’s face "I know you haven’t done anything with him, nor that you would. But the stench of whatever it is you shared is too much for me. I can’t sleep with it in the air because it just reminds me that we now share a place too close in your heart.” Harry collected himself, going to the door and feeling the wind dry his tears on contact. “And you know how I feel about sharing.” 

“When will you be back?” Basil’s voice was flat, defeated. He never thought himself to be a good liar, though he did think he was a half-rate pretender. Seeing Harry so far away and knowing there was nothing he could do planted a sadness so deep in him that the tears had stopped flowing. 

Harry thought for a moment, stepping outside and looking to him once more. “When he’s gone.”

They hadn’t the time, or the thought, to say “goodbye” or a melancholy “I love you.”


	4. When Two Become One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Harry's absence, Basil grows overwhelmingly lonely. Dorian tries his best to understand why, accidentally putting him in the middle of an already tense situation.

Harry didn’t come back that night, nor the night after. He had been gone for nearly a month by the time the portrait was on the cusp of being finished. His manor had become almost like a prison, a foreign location in which he could barely sleep and found himself uncomfortable asking for a class of water. He sat by himself in the library for most of the hours in a day, staring lamely out of the window and having to be force-fed even the smallest plates of food. No one asked what was wrong, knowing better than to prod, so the staff left him be with his thoughts and his regrets. 

Basil found no comfort in his own solitude. Though the moments spent with Dorian naturally filled him with some semblance of what he would image to be joy. The boy took note of this, trying his hardest to start more conversations that required responses and make Basil laugh when he wasn’t working. He was no longer the warm and kind man he met in the park. This bothered Dorian and he had been waiting for the right time and the right string of words to come together to ask what the matter was. 

It came at the end of their third session, satisfaction in the progress made on the portrait evident on Basil’s face. The air in the room had changed from the heaviness of his concentration to the clarity after a storm. Dorian stretched from his position on the stool, yawning and shaking his head back and forth like a dog. “So, Basil-”

“Yes, my dear?” He responded quickly, trying his best to fluff himself up with unsubstantiated contentment.

“Can I ask why you look so sad?” Dorian met with him beside the easel, Basil facing the portrait who’s expression now matched the man it was modeled after. “You haven’t been yourself recently and I would be a terrible friend if I didn’t ask.”

Basil patted him on the shoulder, “I appreciate that, I uh- I don’t know how I feel at the moment.” 

“Do you want to talk about it? I have all the time in the world.” He furrowed his brow, now genuinely concerned. “For you, that is.”

“No, no I don’t want to bother you with my problems. You surely don’t want that weight on your shoulders.” 

Dorian sighed, giving a limp smile, “Basil, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to hear what you had to say.” He took Basil by the shoulder and led him to the chaise. “Now tell me, what’s on your mind?”  
There was only so much he could say without giving his partnership away and with that a secret he was sure Harry wanted to keep. But there was something about Dorian with which Basil felt like he understood more than he was letting on. “It’s just, Harry and I got into a spat not long after you left. I hate people being upset with me and much less people that I consider to be close friends.” 

“It must have been a serious lover’s quarrel to have you so shaken up like this.” Dorian said matter-of-factly, waiting hesitantly for Basil’s response of undoubted defensiveness. The painter turned to him quickly, eyes slightly wide and his lips parted. “Yes, I know about you and Harry and no, I don’t care to tell anyone much about it.” Dorian laughed lightly, shaking Basil with the arm still wrapped around him, “Relax my friend! He’s a very handsome man, I can understand your sadness at him being gone. Please, continue.” He gestured for him to keep talking, supporting his chin with both fists. 

Basil was at a loss for words; no longer nervous at being found out, but caught off guard at for once being understood. “He’s just never been gone for this long before. No letter, no visit- not even to pick up some of his things.” 

“That means he’s coming back, no?” 

“I don’t know when, that’s the problem.” Basil was in no mood nor position to break it to Dorian that he was the cause of this grand rift in his relationship. “I got so used to him being around, it’s strange to be on my own again; even if it’s just for a little while.”

“I mean, you don’t have to be alone.” Dorian looked up at him from his hunched position, making sure to keep the innocent look in his eyes. Basil attracted him wildly, as he’d never been by another in all of his young life. Looking as he did, Dorian attracted an intense variety of people of both sexes; none of which appealed to him as much as Basil did these last handful of weeks. “You can always send for me if you get lonely.” 

Basil scoffed, looking down at him and smiling warmly, his voice low. “I’m sure someone such as yourself has better things to do than comfort some depressed creative in the middle of the night.”

Dorian offered a hollow laugh in return, his eyes losing their telltale glint for only a moment. “Have you ever considered what it feels like to be surrounded by so many that adore you then go to bed alone every night?”

“No, I can’t say that I have.” 

“Don’t think about it too much then,” He reached out a put a hand on Basil’s thigh, rubbing gently with his thumb. “It wouldn’t serve you well given the state you’re in.” 

Basil stared at the hand and how much of his leg it covered. His face grew hot, which Dorian saw and prompted him to try and move away; fearing that he’d made him uncomfortable. Basil clamped his hand on top of it, intertwining their fingers together without saying a word. They sat like that for a moment, unsure of what to do or what to say to make what they knew would happen next any more graceful. 

Dorian looked to the floor, Basil looked straight at his face. He cleared his throat, dropping his voice to a whisper. “If I kissed you right now, would you leave?” 

“I don’t know what I would do.” 

“Then forgive me for being rude, but I’ve waited over a month to do this.” Using his free hand, Basil cupped the side of Dorian's face and leaned into him. Their lips felt electric, time seemed to pass slower and they both didn’t waste a moment. Dorian returned the favor, grabbing Basil by the face and pulling him in deeper; not wanting to leave more than what was necessary to breathe between them. It wasn’t long after that Basil was on top of him, laughing lightly into his mouth and saying words in French that Dorian couldn’t understand. He felt something hard press up against his thigh, Basil working a hand gently through his hair. Dorian froze, holding up a hand to separate their now heaving chests. 

“Basil-“ 

“Yes?” 

“I don’t think we should.” 

“Should what?” 

“Continue whatever this is.” He gestured vaguely to their current position, trying his hardest to ignore his own firming crotch. “It’s unprofessional.” 

Basil laughed, leaning in to kiss Dorian on the jaw, “You know just as well as I do that I’m not the type for following the rules- much less being professional.” He stopped when he caught onto his apprehension. “You can leave if you want me to, we can both just pretend that this never happened. You won’t hurt my feelings.” 

He grabbed for Basil’s hand and brought it to his cheek, rubbing the soft skin against his stubble. “I think you and I both know that this would happen at some point, if not today then the next time we meet.” 

Hovering over him, Basil cracked a smile, his dark hair falling in waves just above Dorian’s eyes. “Why can’t we do it on both occasions? After all, it would make you more apt for painting my figure. Let’s think of it like an artistic exercise. Hm?”  
Throwing caution to the wind, Dorian put one of Basil’s fingers in his mouth, “Let’s stop thinking so much and just go fuck, hm?” The sight made Basil audibly moan, his eyes now hooded and fingers working frantically to separate himself from his clothes. Dorian sat back and watched, mainly out of curiosity in what Basil was hiding under his tailored cotton shirts. His arousal intensified with each abdominal muscle that peaked from between the buttons, devolving into a lip-biting frenzy as his shirt hit the floor. 

“How about we take this somewhere else, I would hate to have my butler walk in on us.” Basil rose from atop Dorian on the chaise and gestured towards the bedroom, his heart beating out of his chest in raw anticipation; he had wanted this since the moment they met.

Dorian could sense such anticipation, the temperature of the room reaching an almost sweltering heat. Not wanting to keep him waiting any longer, he undid the rest of the buttons of his shirt and tossed it aside haphazardly. He extended a hand to Basil, pulling him in the direction of the bedroom, “You’re right, this would be very hard to explain.” The door closed with a soft click behind them, though their laughter echoed through the empty studio. 

They didn’t emerge until the early hours of the night, both of their bodies littered with sucked-on bruises and sweat clinging to their skin. The only reason they stopped at all was due to Basil remembering mid-thrust that he had a prior engagement as close to dawn as an engagement could be. They both finished two times over regardless, out of breath and in dire need for baths. Basil planted one more love bite on Dorian’s collarbone on his way out the door, promising to see him for one final sitting at their usual time the following week. 

Basil turned from his foyer, practically dancing back to bed and grinning like a teenage girl after her first proper date. He laughed out loud at the mess they left behind. Clothes left in a trail around the bed, pillows thrown in every corner of the room, sheets crumpled into fistfuls in the most random places. “The boy knows how to put on a show, that’s for certain.” He said wistfully, pulling his pillow from by the door and flopping onto the still sweaty sheets; the sky lightening just slightly as morning came across the city. 

He awoke to a pounding on his front door within what felt to be seconds after closing his eyes. The sun shone through his curtains and right into his eyes, making him groan and shove his head under the pillow. But the knocking persisted, the door creaking open as if whoever needed his attention so badly knew what they were doing was rude. Basil lifted an ear from the pillow, his breathe hitched in mixed excitement and nerves in his throat. 

“Basil? Are you here?” Harry’s voice called out in a harsh whisper, trying to keep quiet while also having a purpose. 

The painter’s eyes went wide, looking around his tornado of a room and jumping out of bed; working feverishly to clean up and air out the room to get rid of the sight and smell of sex. He caught his own reflection while trying to shove things under the bed and into the closet, his face turning pale at the sight of his chest. Dorian had left a handful of small bruises all over him, marking what he thought was his territory in the throes of passion. “You have to be bloody kidding me.” Basil groaned, putting on a button up nightshirt and a robe to cover himself. 

Harry called out again, “Basil? I hope I haven’t just broken into the house.” He said more to himself than anyone else. The house looked to be as it was when he left, which pleased him to know that they could just pick up where they left off. 

“I didn’t expect you to come by,” He looked ay the clock, “And this early nonetheless.” Basil yawned, stepping out of the bedroom and smiling at the sight of him. “You look well.”

“I haven’t been gone that long you know.”  
“But you’ve been gone.” The silence between them was uncomfortable and thick, both sitting with their actions; some evident and others hidden.

Harry smiled sadly, walking closer to him but knowing better than to touch him. “But I’m here now.”

“Why did you come back, I thought you weren’t coming home until Dorian was gone?”

“I just thought that we needed some time apart. It’s not healthy for two people to live so closely and spend all of their time together.” He stepped closer, “And with Dorian here I just thought that you as an artist and I as your partner needed a break so things didn’t implode. Knowing how quickly you work, I figured now would be a good time to try and put things together again.” 

Basil lobbed his head to the side, laughing with a hint of bitterness. “Is this your version of apologizing to me?” 

“No, I’m not sorry at all. I’m explaining myself so you can stop looking at me like I left you at the alter.” He spoke slowly, making sure that Basil understood every word coming from his mouth. 

“You’re the only one who thought things were going to implode, I was fine painting Dorian and sleeping next to you in the same evening.” 

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, “ And I wasn’t! Does that not mean anything to you?” 

“Of course it does,” Basil came to him, his arms still folded across his chest, “But you have to realize that I’m not going to apologize for being enthralled with my work.” There was a pang of guilt in his stomach. 

“What did Dorian think about all of this? Hm?” Harry turned away and looked out of the large picture window that showed off the garden. “Or did he not realize anything was going on in the first place? He doesn’t seem to understand much after all.” 

Basil was offended on the boy’s behalf. “He’s not some insolent child you know, he’s a grown man who’s actually quite bright. But it’s not like you even gave him a chance to begin with.”  
“Why should I? Why do you want me to think of your divine subject in such high regard?”  
“Because I care about him.” Basil stepped in front of him and demanded his attention, a look of sadness overtaking his expression. “More than you can probably understand.” 

Harry cocked an eyebrow, his voice taking on a low, wounded tone. “Make me understand, Basil.” He never called him by his name, only during the handful of arguments they’ve had in the past.

He took a sharp breath in, feeling ounces of regret for what he had done mixed with the remnants of last night’s ecstasy. His heart thumped in time with the second hand on the clock, knowing there was no way to step away from the truth. “Well, Dorian and I-” 

“You kissed him didn’t you?”

“Slept together.” They spoke at the same time, Basil’s face remaining firm and emotionless, Harry’s devolving into that of pure bewilderment. Neither said anything, the statement echoing around the room and bouncing itself in between them; seemingly digging a gap both mentally and emotionally. 

Harry’s eyes welled up, though he wasn’t sad; but enraged. “You what?” 

“Dorian and I slept together.” 

“When?”  
“Only once, last night.” They spoke in rapid fire, tearing the band-aid off one answer at a time.

“Where?” Basil didn’t respond, only turning his head to the bedroom door and looking at the floor when Harry got the message. “Oh.” He bit his knuckles, “Do you plan on doing it again?” He asked weakly, already knowing the answer.  
“I don’t know.” 

He scoffed, “Yes you do.” Harry sighed deeply, with contempt, “Was he better than me?” 

Basil threw his head back and laughed, “There’s your insecurity again darling. I’m not going to answer that.”

“You just did.” Harry looked at him wildly, stepping closer until their foreheads almost pressed together. “You’re going to regret this Basil.”

He cocked his head to the side, masking the chill that shot down his spine with feigned arrogance. “Should I take that as a threat, or a promise?” The pain he felt for this loss was more than he could have prepared for, but less than what he had expected at the same time. 

Harry kissed him one final time on the cheek, feeling nothing but building malice. “Whichever helps you sleep at night.” With that he took his leave, holding back the urge to laugh until he wept. He stopped with one hand on the doorknob, listening for Basil’s last word, if any. 

“When will I see you again?” He shouted from his spot in the studio, which he was unable to move from, fear building in his gut. 

“When your world has fallen down.” The door clicked behind him, leaving Basil alone again with only his thoughts and his regret.


	5. A Knife in the Back...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry devises a plan take revenge on Basil for cheating on him, once again keeping Dorian in the middle. Though things don't go completely to plan.

Harry burned holes in the pavement as he walked, not looking back at the place he once called home, a cold sweat clinging to his skin. He muttered to himself a litany of half-baked plans for revenge and half-felt senses of anguish. Losing Basil to a man who Harry saw as much more attractive, but half as smart, left him with a downpour of grief. Though rather than go to depression or bargaining; Harry’s grief brought him to an all consuming rage. 

The door to his manor slammed behind him, all of his staff in their beds and knowing better than to jump up and ask him what the matter was. Harry didn’t sleep that night, nor many nights after; instead, he paced. He kept himself locked in the library, not reading a thing or tending to much of anything rather than the plan which he had been crafting from the moment he stepped from the studio. There were moments of maniacal laughter, fits of rage in which many books served as kindling, spells of sobbing that put him on his knees. Harry could no longer put up the front of English aristocracy which he had made fit him so well. 

It was his butler, Frederick (his right hand man and really the only true friend he had), who forced him to eat something after over a week of solitude. Harry was laying face down on the Persian rug in front of the fireplace, mumbling to himself about poison, when Frederick unlocked the door with his master key. 

“Sir I- oh,” He tilted his head to the side and saw Harry’s position, sighing to himself before closing the double-doors behind him. “Sir, I don’t this is the most practical way of reading much of anything.” The smell is what roused Harry off of his face and onto his backside, holding his knees to his chest and sniffing at air. “It’s French toast and eggs sir, your favorite.” 

Harry smiled, a spell of sadness coming over him rather than the consistent, consuming rage. “Thank you, you can leave it over there.” He pointed to a small table beside his favorite armchair, overlooking the back garden and a river in the distance. It was his favorite place to sit this time of year, the covering of frost making him feel at peace. 

“You’re not going to eat it if it’s all the way over there.” Frederick placed the silver tray in front Harry, not caring much about the look of annoyance that fell across his face. “Don’t look at me like that, you’ll starve to death if you ignore another plate of food.”

He sighed, picking up the fork limply and tearing into the eggs, yolk filling the empty spot on the plate. “What if that’s what I want?”

“I have no time for your dramatics this morning sir, you have plenty to live for.” Frederick sat down in front of him, balancing his chin with his fists. “Now what it is that has you so emotional?” Frederick was only a few years older than him, causing their relationship to be more like brothers rather than a noble and his servant.  
Harry rolled his eyes, turning most of his attention to the slices of toast which he quickly inhaled. “You wouldn’t understand if I told you.” He mumbled, still chewing. “This situation might be beyond your help, friend.” 

Frederick handed him a napkin, snickering to himself. “You’ve been involved in far too much and needed my help far too many times to think that’s a satisfactory answer, sir.” 

They shared a quick laugh, Harry turning his attention back to the food; he hadn’t realized how hungry he really was. Frederick watched him silently, waiting for him to finish and trying to assess what state of emotional chaos he was in. Judging by the tear-worn wells under his eyes and the puffiness of his face; he assumed some level of emotional hell that was all-encompassing. 

“Do you remember that artist friend of mine, Basil Hallward?” Harry said, wiping his mouth and carefully stacking the silverware on his plate. 

“The one you’ve been staying with all of this time? Yes, I remember him, he’s a very interesting man. I thought you two…matched each other quite well.” 

“That he is and that we did.” Harry pulled a cigarette from the breast pocket of his jacket, lit it and sighed. “Though, he doesn’t find me very interesting anymore.” The smoke created a haze in front of his face. 

Frederick furrowed his brow, “Did you two have a falling out?” 

“Of sorts.” 

He thought for a moment, staring deep into Harry’s eyes to try and piece together whatever it was he refused to say. There was a heartbrokenness in his expression, one Frederick couldn’t place anywhere else in the years in which they’d known each other. “You look like you’re mourning a death, sir. Clearly it was something dramatic.” 

Harry took a long drag of his cigarette, putting it out in the leftover syrup on the otherwise empty plate. “It’s because he’s dead to me and I haven’t decided if I miss him or not.” He shrugged, “Only time will tell.”

“And why is that?” Frederick leaned closer to him, “The last time you said that was-“

“Do you remember that woman who I brought to live here those years ago?” Harry interrupted him, getting tired of watching the curiosity build on his face and beating him to the punch. “The one that was common looking but had the most beautiful head of auburn hair?” Frederick nodded, imploring him to continue. “She and Basil would have the most wonderful supper together discussing the shattering of my heart.” He pulled another cigarette from his pocket, staring out at the frost covered river and thinking of his plan once again. 

He put the pieces together, uttering a small “Oh” and leaning in to help Harry light his cigarette. They sat in a short silence, Frederick trying to put together any semblance of advice that could be seen as helpful. “She loved you, you know.” 

“He said he did too, and then he slept with someone else. They’re very similar that way, I wonder how I keep getting myself involved with such fickle people.” Harry mused, chuckling to himself. Frederick opened his mouth to speak, but closed it quickly, thinking better of himself. “No, no- speak. You know you could never hurt me.” 

“I just-“ He sighed, “Harry, when Marie was unfaithful to you, you slept with her husband.”

He clapped his hands together, spreading ashes on the rug. “That I did!” Harry laughed the hardest he was capable of in weeks, remembering the look on Marie’s face when she found them together. “He said I was the best he’d ever had.” This alleviated the oppressive emotional whirlwind he was been trapped in for a moment; reminding him that there is an end to all things. 

Frederick had decided that he’d finally heard enough, patting Harry limply on the shoulder and collecting the tray from the floor. It was nearing high noon, the clouds from the early morning sifting from the sky and letting a beam of light into the room; posing as a spotlight on Harry. 

“Sir?” 

“Yes Frederick?” He wiped a tear from laughing with the cuff of his shirt, now starting to show wear from days of going unchanged. 

“Just promise me you won’t do anything you’ll regret.” He was unable to hide the pity in his expression, which Frederick knew would upset him. 

Harry rose from his position on the floor, pushing past him and leaving the library, “You should know this by now,” He mounted the stairs, a staggering sense of clarity enveloping him. He knew exactly what he was to do. “I don’t regret anything.” 

“Of course, sir.” Frederick sighed quietly and disappeared into the back of the hour, morose and slightly disappointed that Harry was past the point of return. 

There was a breath of new life in Harry, the overwhelming sadness seemed to slip off of him, an air of confidence replacing it that made him plan fall together like pieces of a puzzle. He whistled throughout the house, cleaning himself up for the first time in days and requesting an extravagant lunch from the kitchen staff. Everyone was worried, though they knew better than to show it. 

He returned to society as the sun dipped below the horizon, feeling like a brand new man with a pep in his step instead of a burning stride. His solitude brought him peace, which made his journey to Basil’s studio an easier task than it would have been a week prior. If his math had been done correctly, Dorian should be walking his way any moment now; blushing and flustering and filled with emotions Harry could resonate with. Basil tended to bring them out in unexpecting people. So he paced up and down the street across from the studio, humming random notes to himself and thinking a lot about nothing. He heard a door creak open, followed by the soft click of a man’s boots and some chuckled goodbye’s. Harry looked up, hiding stupidly behind a lamp-post and watched the final exchange, catching Basil kiss the young man on the cheek. The rage threatened his composure again, though quickly extinguished by the sight of Dorian coming his way. 

He looked beautiful as always, his blonde hair in an organized mess in front of his eyes, a look of contentment painted across his face. Harry crossed the street, making sure to look up at him as he looked both ways. They were merely feet apart now, Harry’s heartbeat dancing in his chest at the moment Dorian realized that they knew each other. 

He smiled, extending his hand, “Harry! It’s nice to see you again, what are you doing out here so late?” 

“I could ask you the same question,” Harry smirked and shook his hand, impressed at the grip. “It’s nice to see you again as well.” 

Dorian was uncomfortable, though his manners proceeded him. “Are you on your way to see Basil?” 

“No, just taking an evening stroll.” This was more awkward than he intended it to be. “Would you be interested in getting a drink with me?” It was forward and more sudden than he planned it in his head, though Harry never much cared for subtly to begin with.

There was a moment of hesitation, Dorian filing through if this would upset Basil and his own personal curiosities about Harry. He shrugged, taking a quick look at his watch. “I could use one and why not with some friendly company?” He grinned, Harry matching his stride and chuckling to himself. 

They walked in silence, comfortable now instead of awkward. Harry realized soon after entering the pub that he and Dorian had very little in common, which didn’t bother him in the least. If he cared for the boy very much, they wouldn’t be here at all.

The pub was dark and smelled of a mix of sweat and smoke, the crowd which made themselves out to be regulars staring at them when they walked in. A man sat in the front of the house, playing a song neither recognized on the piano, people laughing and dancing wherever there was room. Harry came here when he wanted to exist without expectation, without the stamp of aristocracy sewn into his back. He had no name, no identity; just a face and a wallet. And sometimes, attractive company. 

“Do you come here often? You look quite comfortable.” Dorian had never been in a place this lively before, not that the parties he went to were bland; but a life of nobility didn’t lend him the opportunity to mingle with many regular people.

Harry took Dorian’s coat and pulled out a chair for him at the closest table they could find to a corner. “I haven’t been here in quite a while.” He took his seat across from him and signaled the barkeep for two beers. “But when I do, it’s usually with good company.” 

“And who was the last person you were here with?” 

The truth was that it was Basil, though Harry had no intention of telling him that. He instead took a large swig of the beer that had arrived in their silence; gesturing for Dorian to be the same and laughing when he winced. “So how is your portrait coming along?” 

Dorian grinned at the mentioning of it, “Well, very well. Basil has captured my likeness quite nicely I think, it’s almost too much to look at.” 

“He’s let you see it? Unfinished?” 

“Oh God no,” He took another sip of his beer, wincing again but needing the alcohol, “I snuck a peek while he was using the restroom.” Dorian chuckled, “You know him just as well as I do, if not more, he’d sooner see me dead than have me look at a half-finished painting.”

Harry leaned across the table, pushing both of their drinks to the side and staring at Dorian intently, “How about we don’t talk about Basil anymore, hm?” His voice was low, bordering on being drowned out, “We know so much about him and so little about each other, isn’t that right?” 

Dorian swallowed hard, “That’s, that’s right.” He folded his hands and met Harry in the middle of the table. “What is it you want to know?” 

They talked until closing time, Dorian revealing almost all of himself and Harry only giving was he needed to to keep him talking. He had a learned a fascinating amount, though most of it was useless and told Harry only of his naivety rather any amount of his intellect. The only recognizable thing he learned was that Dorian loved to listen and he adored a well told story; much like a small child. Also that he could speak for nearly an hour about Shakespeare’s plays and dissected them down to their smallest detail; which Harry did thoroughly enjoy. 

The lights in the bar turned off in the middle of a quite lengthy conversation about dress shirt fabrics, snapping their attention to the room around them for the first time since they entered. “I guess that’s our queue to make our grand escape.” Dorian stood and put his coat on, leaving some cash on the table for the drinks. 

“I guess so,” Harry pulled a cigarette from his coat pocket, slipping it between his lips. “I’ve had a great evening with you, shall we continue it somewhere else?” Harry raised an eyebrow, his lips slightly pouting, the cigarette drooping. “I would hate to see such a great conversation die because of some tired bartenders.”

Dorian thought for a second, looking at his watch and judging his state given the beer he’d had. Basil wouldn’t need him for another week or so, and he had no where to be in the morning. Inhibitions to the wind, and thoroughly intrigued with Harry’s presence, Dorian stepped aside, gesturing for Harry to go ahead of him. “Lead the way, Lord Wotton”


	6. ...Twist It...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at Harry's manor, his plan starts to fall apart with the help of scotch and some carefully chosen words.

“Do you live here all alone?” Dorian looked around the expansive foyer, impressed and slightly jealous. “It seems far too big to be just you by yourself.”

Harry took Dorian’s coat and gestured to the library, “It feels that way sometimes. If I think too much or loud, I can hear them echo back to me.”

He chuckled, making himself comfortable on the settee in front of the fireplace, looking around with a familiar glint in his eyes at the expansive collection surrounding him. “I can imagine it’s easy to get lost in here, hm?” 

“Very.” Harry poured them both a class of scotch, bringing the entire decanter and setting it on the floor as he sat down next to Dorian. “Drink?” 

“Yes, please.” He took a quick sip, reeling from the starkness of the alcohol and shuddering. “You know, I really don’t ever drink.” His voice was strained and horse, coughing to clear his throat. “But I’m a slave to my politeness.” 

Harry sat back, slumping against the back of the couch and sighing, “I’m a slave of many things,” He turned his head, entranced by the way Dorian’s blue iris’s mixed with the firelight. “But I can’t say my manners have ever been one of them.” His voice trailed off, now distracted. 

“Then what are you a slave for?” Dorian watched him watch him, trying to piece him together as he did Basil over their many sessions. Harry was a harder puzzle to put together, though if he found the corners, the rest would come together in time. 

He didn’t say anything for a while, looking from Dorian’s eyes, to the fire, to his glass and to the floor; hearing the dull crackling in his ear which reminded him of something and then nothing. Harry poured himself another scotch, choking it back in one gulp. “Everything and absolutely nothing at the same time. Life continues to bore me to such a point that I find excitement in the trivial.”

“Does that bother you?” 

“Exponentially.” 

Dorian poured himself another drink, deciding that the aftertaste was far better than the initial sting, “Then here’s to falling in love with life so deeply it ruins us. May our lives be short, but fulfilled.” He topped off Harry’s glass, clinking them together and throwing his back in a similar fashion, uttering a grunt of disgust. 

It was from then on that rather than repulse him, Dorian provided a sense of nostalgia for a life which Harry had never lived. He furrowed his brow, sitting up and staring at the boy pensively rather than with dull whimsy. “Let me ask you the same question, Mr. Gray, what are you a slave for; besides your impeccable manners?”

He thought for a moment, whirling around his empty glass with a limp wrist and staring off around the room like the walls had suddenly changed shape. “I’m often thought of as someone unable to recognize the world around them, like the skin I’m in reflects all that I am. Some golden retriever without a collar, if you will.” He looked at Harry, the alcohol hitting him slightly, “My unrecognized perceptiveness makes me a slave to everything around me as well, I’m often overwhelmed from influences.” 

“And what’s influencing you right now?” Harry could understand why Basil loved him so much, though he had the inkling that not even Basil had heard him speak this way. 

Dorian laughed, running a hand through his hair, “It’s currently a tossup between this scotch and whatever it is you’re trying to pry out of me.” Harry shook his head to deny, Dorian clicking his tongue stopping him immediately, “How about we pry something out of you now, hm?” He kicked off his shoes and sat cross-legged on the settee, one hand helping him nurse his drink and the other cupping his own face. “Why do you look at me like that?”

Harry scoffed, “Like what?” 

Dorian rolled his eyes, speaking quietly as though he was telling a deep secret. “I can hear those glances that you think are silent.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You look at me like you love me and you hate me at the same time but can’t tell which is easier to feel.” 

Harry titled his head to the side, his eyes dancing around the room to collect his now alcohol drowned thoughts. “Which would you prefer?”

“The truth.” Dorian’s voice remained at a whisper, leaning closer to him, “Please, answer the question.”

Harry placed his glass on the floor, “Well,” He crossed his legs at the knee, leaning back and looking up at the high vaulted ceiling. “Because you asked so nicely, I will.” He closed his eyes, tired, tipsy, and trying his best to keep Dorian in suspense. This was working all too well and he had grown slightly suspicious that the lad was onto him. “I don’t love you, I’ve known you far too little to feel that way; I don’t hate you either for the exact same reason.” Harry felt Dorian scoot closer to him and cracked one eye open; he grinned, for he had captured the boy’s attention. “That being said, there’s something about you which makes me so sad but so invigorated I’ve decided that behaving indifferently is the only way to preserve myself.” This was not a lie, and he his loose tongue had surprised him. “You have far too much of what the world craves inside of you. You amaze and repulse me at the same time, Dorian Gray.” 

Dorian looked at him in subdued amazement as he realized Basil had felt the complete opposite way about him. Someone who was so appalled yet so in control of their own emotions enthralled him more than he thought was possible, or rational. Harry was of a species he didn’t recognize but could spend years studying. Suddenly, painting was far less impressive. He put his glass on the floor, feeling woozy but warm. “I don’t know how all of that is possible. Nevertheless, you sound very sure of yourself. I’m just Dorian, though I guess I don’t fully understand what that means anymore.”

“That’s the most beautiful thing about you, you have no idea what you possess and what it means to those who see it and are instantly jealous of it.” Harry’s eyes grew wet, cursing himself yet again for his loose tongue. “Beauty goes beyond the face, which I can imagine is what makes the public want you, want to be you and envy you all at once.”

“Well I have to know what it is at once! This ‘thing’ I have that you speak of!” He was irritated and slightly frightened all of a sudden; as everything had made him see himself too clearly too fast. 

Harry reached out and took Dorian’s hand, laughing more to himself than at the statement as he sat back up face him. “You’ll have to find out on your own, I would hate to be the one to ruin you for yourself.” 

Dorian scoffed, “I’m hardly some virgin white thing to spoil, I hate when you speak of me like I’m some kind of precious thing Harry.” He pouted slightly, making no attempt to pull his hand away. “You do know that I’m a grown man right?” 

“I’m well aware, it would be quite criminal to feel the way I do about you otherwise.” They both laughed, lightening the intensity of the room by a significant amount. “Have you had enough of me yet? I can imagine a lad of your popularity must have something better to do than get drunk with someone of the likes of me.” In truth Dorian’s presence, and the realization that he wasn’t just a vapid beautiful thing, threatened Harry’s indifference so much it worried him. 

Dorian opened his mouth in false offense, gasping quite dramatically “Lord Wotton, are you asking me to leave? Have I really asked that much of you?” 

“Someone like you needs to be taken in small doses, too much of you at once might risk my choice of being solitary.” He had yet to let go of his hand. The rose color of Dorian’s lips glowed against the firelight, entrancing him. Harry reached out with his free hand and cupped the side of Dorian’s face, running his thumb under the curve of his bottom lip. “Not that I’m one for commitment either.”

There was a dull throbbing growing in Dorian’s temples which quieted itself whenever Harry opened his mouth and spoke. The vibration of his voice though the air seemed to quiet his mind, calming him and lulling him into a state of almost sleep. “Do I really have to leave?” He leaned his face into Harry’s touch, enjoying his warmth and the perfume of his cigarettes. “It’s a long way back and I’m embarrassed to say that I’m drunk.” 

“Embarrassment is a useless emotion.”

“So is indifference.” 

“I love when you challenge me.”

Dorian laughed weakly, a yawn following soon after, “It’s fairly easy to do.” 

“Is that so?” Harry cocked an eyebrow and leaned in closer, their faces only separated by a strip of firelight. He finally stopped tracing the boy’s lower lip, a faint whine escaping him. Instead, he moved his hand to tilt up Dorian’s chin, examining him one final time before closing the gap between them. 

He tasted of the fruity remnants of his drink and youth; sweet but sad and a saltiness which reminded Harry of what it was to cry. It was less satisfying than he pictured in his head but as relieving as screaming in an empty field; putting all emotion he has knotted inside of his gut for more days than he could care to count into Dorian’s mouth. He felt alive. What was captured like a bird in a wire cage within Dorian’s irises passed between them; breathing a life into Harry which made his heart swell and his eyes water. 

Dorian felt a tear fall down his cheek that he hadn’t wept. He pulled away, placing a soft hand onto Harry’s chest and felt the ricochet of his heart beat against his palm. His brows knotted together in concern, cheeks rosy and warm. “Are you alright? I didn’t bite you did I?” 

Harry laughed breathlessly, “No, you didn’t bite me.” 

“Then what’s the matter?” He studied his face, looking for a sign of anything in his eyes which Harry purposely averted. Dorian wiped a stray tear before it bled into the collar of Harry’s shirt. 

He didn’t say anything for a long time, recovering from the feeling as if he was coming down form the worst opium high. There was a pang of guilt in his chest. He realized then that he had crafted the Devil in his mind from the likes of a Botticelli angel. Harry shook his head, waking up from his haze. He kissed the lingering hand on his cheek and smiled weakly, “Nothing, you’re just an exceptionally good kisser and I’m exceptionally inebriated.” 

Dorian yawned again, satisfied with the answer though he didn’t believe it. He fell back dramatically on the settee, lowering his lids, “It has to be at least two in the morning, you don’t think I can stay here for the night do you?” 

“I don’t mind at all.” Harry stretched out his legs and stood up, turning around to find Dorian’s long legs already taking his place. “I suppose you plan on staying down here?” 

He had already closed his eyes, halfway to sleep. “If this is where you’ll have me.” He opened one eye, “Unless there’s somewhere else I can go?” 

Harry picked him up from the couch like a bride from the alter, laughing at his sounds of surprise and taking him from the library to the master bedroom. Dorian was asleep before his head was placed softy against the pillow. He watched him for a moment; how he gently snored into the silk pillowcase and shivered slightly with the lack of the fireplace to keep him warm. Harry gave him a blanket separate from the quilt, tucking him in before settling himself into bed under the covers. He fell asleep listening to Dorian’s heartbeat in the otherwise silent room. The blistering anger in his chest kept him warm all night; thought this time returned to Basil for putting such sweetness at the center of what was once all that brought him joy. 

Dorian awoke first, the midmorning sunlight shining in his eyes and the bird’s who had yet to fly south singing loudly in his ears. The dull throbbing in his temples had receded to the back of his skull, making the usual beauty in such a moment an unbearable annoyance. He retreated back into the pillow, quickly realizing however, that the perfume coming from the silk wasn’t familiar; nor was the feeling of the mattress. His face devolved into a harsh squint, the hours before coming back to him like the slow reel of a fishing pole. The kiss replayed in his mind and he smiled, chuckling silently to himself and comfortably returning to the pillow. He stretched out a hand behind him, gripping at the sheets lightly and finding Harry’s back not far from his own. 

He stirred at the sudden touch, turning over with a dull groan and slinking his hand around Dorian’s waist. The boy smiled, breathing in this moment as much as he could before sleep took him over once again. He celebrated a silent victory, knowing he had found all four corners of the complicated puzzle which responded to the name “Harry”.


	7. ...And Pull it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The love triangle comes to it's point after Basil finally takes note of Dorian's absence. Did Harry's plan actually work itself in fruition? Or has the end result worked itself into something far more satisfying. Find out in this last chapter of Total! Drama! England!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a blast writing this story, I hope you guys enjoyed reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments! :)

“Is Mr.Gray in?” Basil asked desperately to the butler who answered the door, his eyes wide and tone breathless. 

Basil was left to his own devices, truly alone for the first time in longer than he could count. The portrait sat for weeks as it had when Dorian last left; Basil unable to do more than touch it longingly and speak to it when loneliness struck. He sent letters, dozens of them and called his manor almost nightly. Desperation consumed him on New Year’s Eve, attending one of the yearly balls where all good-natured men had to show their faces, going into a frenzy over finding Dorian not in attendance. He asked around for him, shooting back several flutes of champagne and growing cold as each individual was equally confused at his lack of show as Basil. The more time that went on, the more sure he was that Harry had done something; though he couldn’t place exactly what.

“No, I’m afraid he isn’t sir.” 

Basil sighed, a chill creeping up his spine separate from the cold of the night around him, “Do you have any idea where he could be, I need to see him urgently.” 

The butler looked him up and down, his face flat and his voice flatter, “I could presume he’s where he always is this time of night,” The grandfather clock chiming to ten interrupted him momentarily, “And that would be with Lord Wotton, do you need the address?”

“No, I’m quite familiar with him. Thank you.” Basil crossed his arms to his chest to tighten his coat, making his way deeper into the city to Harry’s manor.

Dorian found himself unable to part ways with Harry. The understanding between them grew during the hours of midday and early morning; sitting as they had before and talking of a million things. Sometimes they drank, but as time went on and the days turned to weeks, they no longer needed the alcohol to dull themselves. Slowly, Harry had begun to unravel himself as the nights went on, showing Dorian some of the pieces of himself he had learned to hide. They trusted each other, both with their thoughts and with their bodies, in a way which Harry thought he would never experience again. For a month he drifted in and out of Harry’s manor, leaving when the sun started to rise and arriving when it cast the sky in vibrant shades of purple and blue. They lived like vampires for a time, which had become a joke both found overwhelmingly amusing.

He had just arrived when the clock chimed ten, letting himself in and waving to Frederick as he rushed down the hall to get the door. “Good evening Freddie, where is he tonight?” 

Frederick had grown to like Dorian, though in the beginning he had his own doubts about Harry’s intention with him. He was happy to see him fulfilled again, alive. “He’s finally chosen another room to live in.” He took Dorian’s overcoat and gestured upstairs. “He told me to tell you that he ran out of scotch.” 

“Oh thank God, don’t let him get any more of it.” He took to the stairs, admiring the art along the walls and the silence. No matter how many times he came to visit or stay the night, he was always caught off guard by the utter tranquility of the house. Harry’s bedroom wasn’t very hard to miss, the two wide doors carved more ornately than the rest struck out considerably. It felt more like walking into a throne room than what it really was; which at the end of the day was just his library with a bed in the middle of it. He knocked gently three times to announce his presence before coming in. 

Harry roused from his comfortable position under the covers, meeting Dorian at the door and taking him into his arms. He was never one for hugs before, but the intimate act of being close to someone else, without the intention of sex, made him feel comfortably like a child again. He wrapped his arms around Dorian’s waist and pulled him in for a quick kiss, reveling in the softness of his skin. “I was almost afraid you weren’t coming.” 

“And sleep alone? On purpose?” Dorian kissed Harry’s cheek, “You’ve spoiled me far too much for that.” He moved his mouth to the corner of Harry’s jaw, goosebumps raising on his arms from the sudden heat. “In more ways than one.” 

Harry caught him by the chin, raising his head up so their eyes met. “Would it inflate your ego to know that you’ve spoiled me as well?” 

He thought for a second, slipping away from Harry and falling backwards onto the bed, “I couldn’t tell you, I’ve never considered myself someone of much influence.” The perfume of cigarettes and lavender swirled in the air about his head, relaxing him. He felt more at home here than anywhere else. 

“You haven’t considered yourself enough then.” Harry flopped down next to him, extending an arm so Dorian could lay on his chest, which he accepted. “You’ve helped me take myself less seriously, which is luxury I’m only allowed when you’re near.” He looked down at him, admiring the bridge of his nose. “I’m also allowed to look at you, which is less of a luxury and more of a pleasure.” The furrowing of Dorian’s brows at that made an harsh dent in his forehead. “But I also get to explore your mind, which oftentimes is better than both put together.” The dents faded away, replaced with a soft grin. 

“I love it when you do that.”

“When I do what?” 

“Flatter me,” Dorian looked up, blushing slightly to see Harry already watching him. “You’re very creative when you do.” He moved suddenly from under Harry’s arm to atop his chest, sitting up and studying him silently. “We should go somewhere.” 

Harry let out a loud laugh, causing Dorian to shake and hold onto his toned stomach for support, “And where would we go? There’s very little solitude one can have in a society as nosey as ours.” He ran one lingering hand up and down Dorian’s thigh, tracing patterns into the fabric. 

“I was left a house in the country, far away from here.” Dorian’s eyes gleamed hopeful. “If this is what you have to say about the city, I would love to hear what comes out of your mouth in the middle of almost nowhere.” He leaned down, hovering about Harry’s face, putting on his best look of subtle but not-so-subtle pleading. “I can’t do much more of this vampiric nonsense, I would like to see you when the sun is up sometimes.” He kissed Harry gently on both cheeks, “I’m far too old to be running around like a teenager in the night.”

“You’re 20.” 

“And you’re avoiding what I’m saying.” 

Harry snaked an arm around Dorian’s back, palming the back of his head, pulling him close, “Stay with me one more night and we can go into the cosmos if you wish it so.” He whispered in the gap between their mouths, sealing the promise with a kiss. 

Dorian pulled away to catch his breath, “Do you really mean it?” 

“You ask too many questions.” Harry pulled him back down, unbuttoning his shirt and ignoring the hard knocking on the front door. “We can go anywhere you want,” He thought for a moment before kissing him again, “Just not America- but anywhere else is on the table.” They laughed and went back to each other, Dorian flinching as the echo from downstairs continued; more rapid this time. 

“Are you expecting anyone?”

“What did I say about your questions?” Harry heard Frederick go the door, his skin going cold from the voice that came from the threshold.

Dorian felt the change in temperature, saw his eyes snap open and the rigidness of his body moving just seconds ago in an intense rhythm. He sat up, craning his head to listen to what Harry heard so clearly. They sat in a frozen silence, hardly breathing. The door slammed, Frederick shouted, footsteps stomped against the wood stairs, creating an echo that matched the rapidness of Harry’s heartbeat; though not in nerves, but annoyance. The boy moved off of his chest and sat on his side farthest from the door, his arms wrapped around Harry’s middle, confused and somewhat afraid. 

He looked to Dorian, seconds before the bedroom doors swung open, “We have a visitor.” 

Basil burst into the room, panting as if he’d run a mile and Frederick coming in soon after, equally as out of breath. “I tried to stop him from coming in sir,” Frederick started, attempting to grab Basil by the elbow to take him out, but failing. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer and just ran past me.” 

“That’s not very polite of you Mr.Hallward,” Harry rose from the bed, kissing Dorian on top of his head both as a means to calm him down and a means to start up Basil. “You may leave us, Frederick.”

“But sir he-“

He raised a hand to stall anymore objections, “I can handle myself, thank you.” Frederick huffed, leaving and closing the double-doors behind him. The three men were left in a palpable state of tension; Basil’s eyes dancing wildly about the room, Dorian looking with fear behind his face from Harry to Basil and Harry looking far too amused at the scene he’d created. “So,” He clapped, sitting back down on the bed and taking Dorian under his arm again. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Basil?” 

“What have you done to him Harry?” Basil spit, speaking in a harsh almost whisper. 

He was taken aback by this, pressing his ear to Dorian’s chest and listening dramatically, “He’s still breathing, so I don’t know what you could be implying.” 

“You’ve poisoned him against me, snatched him from right between my fingertips,” Basil started to pace back and forth, his face now hot from emotion rather than exertion. “You couldn’t stand that someone else could make me happy, so of course!” His eyes went wild, “How could I not see if before?” He stopped pacing finally, looking Harry right in the eye, “So you took him from me! Poached him on the first eve of hunting season!” 

“I can’t take what wasn’t yours to begin with Basil.” Harry said plainly, not moved in the least by the dramatics taking place in front of him. “He’s more than a picture to paint, you do realize this right?” 

“Of course I do!” 

“Then why are you here? To reclaim your missing toy or was there something else you needed?” Each word came out more venomous than the last, his malice for the man before him practically dripping from his lips.

Basil was at a loss of words for a moment, truly considering the gravity of the statement before brushing past it, “I’m here because I was worried about Dorian, no one has seen him in weeks and I wanted to make sure you didn’t…” He trailed off, unable to finish his thought in the boy’s presence. 

“Didn’t what?” Harry looked to Dorian, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper “What does he think I would have done to you?” 

Basil scoffed, ignoring him, now looking to Dorian, “And you! Did what we share mean nothing to you? Did my adoration mean nothing to you? I expected this from him, but I didn’t expect to be so wounded by you.” He was close to tears now, their night in his bed playing like a sad lullaby in his mind. 

Dorian cleared his throat, shaking Harry’s arm from his shoulders. “Do you behave such a way with everyone you sleep with?” His voice implied that he was genuinely curious, no longer afraid, but profoundly irritated.

“What?” 

He spoke again, slower this time. “Do you- behave this maniacally- with everyone you sleep with?” Dorian’s face was like smooth stone, hard-set and with little conveyable emotion. 

“No, no I don’t.” Basil took a tedious step closer, “But you weren’t just anyone.” 

Dorian stood, a throbbing anger building within him, “I know, I know, I was your precious innocent flower which only you could pluck. I find it so sad that you’ve created such a divine caricature of me in your head that you’ve blocked out am semblance of who I am in this reality.” He watched the pain overtake Basil’s face, wondering which part of what he’d said hurt him the most; though he didn’t care to ask. 

“You could have left me there, gone home and prevented this all from happening.” Basil was reaching out to him now, desperate to, even in his state, feel their hands touch again. “Why did you stay?”

Dorian scoffed, “You were a good looking man who made me feel special.” The night played again in his mind as well, “I thought you were brilliant. The way you viewed the world fascinated me, attracted me, made me see a part of being alive which I couldn’t create myself.” He was walking around Basil in a circle, watching him hang onto every word he said. “But you’re a slave to your eye and as you replaced Harry with me, I realized that one day I would be discarded as well.” He laughed to himself bitterly, “And I haven’t the time to be broken up about that.”

Harry watched this all unravel from the comfort of his bed; different from how he’d originally intended, but entertaining in the same regard. In his head he saw himself as a mighty antagonist from one of Shakespeare’s great works, revealing his plan to all that had watched it unfold. Only to an empty auditorium, besides those he’d loved and lost. Both of theses men, broken and fulfilled respectively, were to be hurt by his doing; Dorian merely a pawn securing his victory of ending the one who’d wounded him so badly. He didn’t plan on falling for the boy or to love him so quickly, so things naturally had changed. However Basil was still feeling the knife in his back as originally intended, with Dorian twisting it now instead of himself. 

“Did you ever feel anything for me then?” Basil asked quietly, wounded by the unthought truth in the statements which cut him so deeply. 

Dorian sighed, looking over Basil’s shoulder into Harry’s eyes, “I haven’t known you long enough to love you; not now and not then either. Though I can’t say you haven’t taught me anything.” 

“And what could that possibly be?” Basil scoffed, “How to get away with murder?” 

“What it is to be loved for what you give others, but not for what they can get from you.” He looked at Basil pitifully. “You were so happy that someone you etched in acrylic on canvas had popped from the easel and into your bed you hadn’t once considered that perhaps I was more than my inanimate counterpart.”

“You didn’t give me the time to know you!” 

“Au contraire!” Dorian shouted, surprising both Harry and Basil, “You never tried to know me!” His face was now contorted in the anger he felt inside, “I was just a beautiful thing to you, nothing of substance or intellect! You would sooner have me rot inside and die divine on your stool then dare age me with thought!” He had begun to cry in frustration and rage. 

Basil stood motionless, knowing better than to deny what they all knew to be true. “I’m sorry.” 

Harry chimed in, thoroughly entertained and satisfied, “I think it’s best if you go.” He crossed the room and took Dorian into his arms, who cried into his shoulder shaking violently. 

Basil opened his mouth, wanting desperately to say something- anything, only to come up short. He wanted nothing more than more look at Dorian, as he knew this would be the last time they’d be in the same room on purpose. His tear stained face coming up for air provided him no solace, only deepening the pit of regret in his stomach to an all-encompassing nausea. It was true that Harry had pulled the strings, though Basil realized then that it was him who built the puppets to begin with. 

Frederick was waiting to walk him out at the bottom of the grand staircase, a revolver in his hand and a deep scowl on his face. He said nothing as he was escorted out and only flinched as the door slammed against his heels. He was more alone than he had been in his entire life and the worst part was that there was no one else to blame. He could no longer find joy in the portrait, which he considered to be his greatest work. Though it felt like a crime to attempt to destroy it. The Dorian he had grown to love, to adore, to worship, lived in the stitching of the canvas. This was all he had left of him and this was the enhancement of his true form which would live within Basil forever. Though he knew it was false and highlighted someone he now realized didn’t exist, there was pleasure still left in the lie. 

Dorian had composed himself by the time he heard the front door click shut, wiping his eyes dry with the back of his hand and embarrassed for losing his temper. “I don’t know what he thought he would achieve with all of that nonsense.” He sniffed, his voice hoarse and quiet. 

“I think that was his attempt at winning you back,” Harry wiped a stray tear from Dorian’s chin, “But it was a piss-poor attempt.” 

Dorian looked up at Harry, his eyes glistening like frozen-over ponds in sunlight, “Why does he think you ‘poached’ me from him?” 

Harry sighed, pulling Dorian’s shirt from his shoulders and leading him gently to bed, tucking him under the covers. “The truth is messy,” He pulled his own shirt from over his head, the heat of the room becoming stifling with the impression Basil had left behind. “It’s raw and uncomfortable.” The second Harry got himself into bed, Dorian latched himself to his chest like a koala, still sniffling. “You can’t blame people for preferring lies.”

“I can blame him for treating me like a walking piece of art,” Dorian groaned, “I sound so arrogant when I speak that way, some people would beg to be treated as I have been.”

Harry kissed his forehead, enjoying the perfume of his air, “Art is appreciated for all that it represents both clearly and in its deepest interpretations. You’re not seeing the full picture if you only choose one or the other.” He closed his eyes, the clock chiming eleven. “We can talk about it again in your house by the countryside, I won’t hear more about it until then.” 

Dorian smiled, excitement burning in his chest instead of anger. “And when will that be?” 

“When do you want to go?” 

They left the following night. Only Frederick knew where they truly went, although he was ordered to relay the lie that Harry had gone to Prague to visit an ailing aunt, Dorian traveling by his side for emotional support. The public thought it to be perfectly normal, the pair successfully leaving before the sun rose like thieves in the night. 

Winter faded into spring, the fields surrounding the house lighting up in shades of orange, yellow and the most exquisite shades of blue. Although it was in the middle of nowhere, the Gray’s country home still looked to be plucked from the most affluent neighborhoods of London. The only real difference being the silence that had surrounded them and the lack of places to go. Though the latter didn’t seem to both them much, finding the most trivial things far more entertaining than anything they did in the city. 

Harry sat in the back garden on a warm day in mid-March, eyes closes and head titled back to feel the sun on his face. Bees swarmed the carefully tended flower boxes of tulips and hydrangeas, a willow tree blowing lazily in the wind above him. The backdoor opened, his ears perking up to the sound of Dorian’s low humming. 

“I brought you some lemonade.” He said cheerfully, placing down one glass on the table and keeping another for himself. “What are you thinking of?” 

“The person I used to be, he irritates me.” Harry blinked his eyes open slowly and sat up, bringing the glass to his lips. “I used to be the most dreadful person at parties.” 

Dorian chuckled, “I would like to think that’s a good thing, no? Self-reflection is one of the most human things we can do. Finding our past faults and harping on them until one day we realize that we don’t recognize the person we used to be at all, more as a morose celebration than a loss I’d like to think.” 

Harry stared at him, watching the sun make golden shimmers of his hair and light up his eyes as he’d never seen before. “Can I ask you a silly question?”

“All of your questions are silly, so I don’t see a problem with asking another.” He dodged a lemon slice thrown at his head and giggled, imploring Harry with a waved hand to go on. 

“How do you plan to cope with the inevitability of death when you don’t know when it will come?” The voice of his former self came from between his lips, he could almost taste the sorrow and apathy and it repulsed him. “I used to ask this at parties, what a lively fellow I was then.” He spoke more to himself than Dorian. 

The boy considered this for a minute, staring off at the willow tree with a deep look of concentration on his face before turning back to Harry, “Who fucking cares?” 

He choked on his drink, “Pardon me?”

“You heard me Harry, who fucking cares?”

“I used to, very much so apparently.” 

“That person is dead isn’t he? That version of you that I had the unfortunate pleasure of watching come over you just now?” 

“I…guess he is…yes.” Harry spoke slowly, confused. 

Dorian took a long sip from his lemonade, making a loud ‘Ah’ sound and placing it on the table. “You didn’t know when the old you would die, you probably didn’t even know he was gone until you asked me that stupid question. So what’s the point in considering something like that when their are versions of ourselves we kill just by waking up everyday?” He watched Harry think about this, how he felt showing on the furrowing and unfurling of his brows. Dorian leaned in, taking his free hand and squeezing it gently. “Thinking only of the end stifles our chances of every making new beginnings.” He whispered, bringing Harry’s knuckles to his lips and kissing them. “Have we not put ourselves through enough to allow a happy ending?” 

A tear dripped down Harry’s face, landing in his glass. The willow tree danced in the yard, birds chirped in the distance. There was a pressure lifted off of him staring into those blue eyes, as if someone physically dropped the life of Harry in London off of his back. 

“Do you think that we could spend the rest of our lives out here?” He gestured vaguely to their surroundings. 

“We can go to the cosmos, if you wish it so.” Dorian looked deeply in Harry’s eyes, the world around them going still as if they were at its center. “I would follow you to the ends of the Earth if it meant I could hold your hand.”

“Where do you want to go first then; the ends of the Earth or the cosmos?”

Dorian laughed, standing up from his chair and looking around with his hands on his hips, “We have the rest of our lives, so I guess it does’t really matter, now does it?” 

Harry looked up at him, amazed and perplexed all within the same heartbeat, “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

In the end, it was Harry who followed him everywhere they went, that feeling within his heart awarded the name “love”.


End file.
